


Black Victory

by sherwoodfox



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Ending, Conquest, Corruption, Dark!Frodo, End of the World, Evil!Frodo, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Nazgûl | Ringwraiths, Slavery, Transformation, What-If, unlikely friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: A short account of the creation of the tenth Ringwraith, and the events that followed.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee, Frodo Baggins/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	Black Victory

_The new one_ was rather different from the rest.

This was the general consensus that had been established by all the dark things of the Lord’s kingdom, the kingdom that would come to rule the world.

After all, there were many who hadn’t been alive when the first nine Ringwraiths had been created, and more who barely remembered such distant past times. The nine, the Nazgûl, these were such a constant presence, it almost felt like they had always been there- no one had ever considered that the Lord might have reason to make another one.

But done that he had.

The orcs gossiped to themselves about it- no one really knew exactly what had happened, they weren’t privy to such information, but a few generals had been given the gist of it and tales spread through the lines. 

_Someone from the West found the Weapon-_

_-surely not, idiot, then we would have it back!-_

_-no, found it, and lost it again, but was ensnared all the same. Turned wicked by the curse of a blade…_

_And was it a Man?_

_No, not a man. Something else. A little halfling._

_...what are those?_

_Oh, shut up! A little thing, with sweet meat, but this one’s not sweet anymore._

At first, only the other nine got to see this one- so delicate it was, after its recent death, a strong wind would have been enough to scatter it. It lived for a while in the shadows of the Tower, a tiny cold light with unseeing eyes. The soul was a stubborn thing in what this one had been, but soon enough it was all burnt away. The will of the master filled in the space left behind, a complete domination, and what remained- thoughts, desires, inclinations- were corrupted, turned on their heads and made black, until just like the others it was _evil._

The whole world would be remade this way.

And what a perfect little weapon the Lord now had- all that intelligence and light and charm, there couldn’t have been a better choice for a Ringbearer, and thus no better _wraith._ The things he plucked from its mind were dazzling, what a perfect collection of secrets, the workings of the elves and the wizard and Isildur’s heir. They would stand no chance now, that much was guaranteed, and his new pet was just as pleased as he was, because that was how he had designed it. Now, he need only wait for the weapon to be returned- and it couldn’t be long. The plans of his enemies had failed, and how could they not? Entrusting such important tasks to something so _fragile…_

The new one became stronger, and began to wander the plains, and it was a matter of great excitement for the orcs to see it- how small it was, in comparison to the rest! What a bright colour it glowed. This one looked like a _trick,_ because it was pretty, and pretty things didn’t exist here. Every one of them wanted to touch it- to rip it open and eat it and fuck it- because they had been designed with these brutal instincts and couldn’t escape them. Each would have killed every other if it meant a chance to have the new Ringwraith to itself- this was known, and it made the little one laugh, which was such a clear and enchanting sound (like crystal, or shattering ice) that it only spurred them on more; of course, never did any orc of any size or standing win the prize. If any got close it would disappear, or wave them away, freeze them where they stood with a terrible fire in their brains because its will was the Lord’s will, and the Lord wanted it all to himself. 

Playing such games the new one became stronger still, until it could take steps out beyond Mordor. The southern Men were the ones who got to see it next in their negotiations, and they preferred to speak with it rather than the Mouth, for though the weight of its presence was equal its voice was much sweeter. Those that feared in secret the horrors that might come from a world ruled by Sauron were assuaged, for this little messenger seemed to them like an angel, and if this could be made in that mountain of fire than surely so would others like it. More princes and generals joined in, tempted, because while the other wraiths in life may have been tempestuous or courageous or bold, this one had been _alluring,_ and in death that quality had been increased tenfold.

The ancient evil that lived above the pass of Cirith-Ungol, the one that the orcs called Shelob, grew to know this little Ringwraith as well. The first time she saw it she thought to kill it, but then she changed her mind, the why of which even she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was because she had felt the cold air around it, and known that though its shell was tempting, its flesh would have been sour. There wasn’t anything worth eating left, even in the marrow of its bones. Unlike the orcs, it didn’t fear her, and unlike the others of its kind it didn’t ignore her, not minding round walls and underground passages, _burrows._ It came to see her often, and it would tell her in good humour of the various exploits of the ridiculous orcs or the foolish men, and in spite of herself she would sit and listen when her belly was full. The white light this thing emitted did not harm her, for it was a lie, not pure or good in the slightest. Sometimes it would bring her meat- guiding the fattest and juiciest orcs into her lair, having made them desperate for it with nothing but a sideways look, and it would laugh when she gutted them and strung them up to dry. She became fond of the little Ringwraith, anticipating its visits in the back of her mind, always pleased when that little light brightened the insides of her home again. Sauron, from where his mind lay far away, called her his _hunting cat,_ but this one called her the old seamstress, and out of affection she wove clothes for it- silk shirts and pants and cloaks in a colour just a white as its skin was. Wearing such things, did it not look almost like it was alive again?

This was what its old companions thought, when they saw it at the edge of battle, when the withered forces of Men had gathered outside the Black Gates in a desperate attempt to keep hold of the crown of the world. How the White Wizard despaired, to see all his most dreaded imaginings come true before his eyes! How amused that made the little Ringwraith. How it amused the Lord to see them through its eyes, to see for himself the moment that they knew they had failed.

After all, this perfect little weapon of his had broken the _other_ halfling with little more than a glance. It had been foolish of the wizard and his elven advisors to try the same ploy, when it had failed already once. How foolish of them to send one with such an easily attached heart. They should have predicted it- for such a simple thing, what was the difference between ‘dead’ and ‘alive’ when the dead looked like _that?_

The Lord hadn’t kept the second halfling, the weak Ringbearer who had given up his burden for a kiss. There wouldn’t have been any point in that. The pathetic and worn-out had no place in his industrial world, so he had burnt the worthless thing to ashes the moment the Ring was back in his hand.

The Men and their companions lost that day, lured by a false pretence of frailty into a trap they had no hope of escaping, and with their fall the Old World came to an end, and the new one was ushered in to the chiming of ice-cold laughter.

Burn the white tree, paint the walls of the city black, that was the colour that suited this place best. Enslave the humans that could work, eat the ones that can’t- or rape them, and then eat them, what does it matter? The sun stopped shining in the East, and it wasn’t long before every sky was filled with black clouds so thick and near the ground they suffocated the tops of the mountains. The Elves fell next, their palaces and strongholds reduced to ash, all the boats to the Grey Havens set aflame. The dwarves died in their mines, as all that was wicked and sleeping slept no more at the ringing of the Lord’s bells. 

The little halfling race, in its sheltered pocket of the world, fell the easiest. There was no need for green grass or red strawberries in this kingdom- orcs preferred the mud, and the halfings’ flesh was much sweeter than their berries. This the Lord knew himself, for what pleasure he took from his pet, with its cold lips and still-soft skin and brilliantly glowing eyes.

The little Ringwraith cared for none of this. It was the illusion of a sweet little bird, perched on the Lord’s hand, the only white thing left to be seen- the only white thing he fancied keeping. Like this, it would exist until the end of all time, just like the clouds and the fires and the furnaces. The Ring, comfortable in where it belonged, hummed with enjoyment of the victory.

For all was won, and all was settled, and if there ever had been any future other than this one, it had been long forgotten.   
This was the way of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has the same concept as my other one, ‘Unto the Ending of the World’, because I had real trouble deciding how to finish it. This is an uglier alternative take.  
> (Also, written mostly because I had a bug in my head about Shelob and Ringwraith-Frodo being friends, and had to let it crawl out somewhere).


End file.
